


Coevolution: Parts I, II, & III

by unkissed



Series: Coevolution [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Coming of Age, Friendship, Gen, Harry Potter Next Generation, Love, M/M, POV First Person, Pre-Slash, Work In Progress, collection of firsts, some f-bombs dropped
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-28
Updated: 2014-10-29
Packaged: 2018-02-23 02:27:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2530589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unkissed/pseuds/unkissed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Albus dreams of twinkling stars, silver-blue eyes, and fame.</p><p>The age old story of boy-meets-boy and boy falls in love with boy but doesn't know it yet.  In other words, the story of how Albus and Scorpius met.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Twinkling Stars, Silver-blue Eyes, and Fame

**Author's Note:**

> I have decided to make this work a collection of separate stories rather than a multi-chapter work-in-progress fic. That's because I haven't been writing it in chronological sequence. I have pretty much all of Coevolution outlined, but I'm writing it out as inspiration strikes, out of order.
> 
> The first three parts are here, posted as chapters. But from now on, each part will get it's own story.
> 
> Gratitude goes out to ColorfulStabwound, Shannon, and Bex for inspiration, friendship, and support.
> 
> I borrowed some OC's. Bryce belongs to Shannon. Alexa and Duston belong to ColorfulStabwound. 
> 
> The homophobia depicted in the story does not reflect my views, so pardon the negative language.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've known him for a few hours and he presumes to know everything about me.

We’re eleven-years-old.

My palm is resting in his hand and he’s reading it like the page of a book, narrowing his eyes in deep concentration, studying the lines carefully as his fingertip slowly traces them.  The furrow forming between his pale brows is worrying me. I feel exposed, like he’s reading my soul and finding all the secrets I’ve buried there.  I’ve known him for a few hours and he presumes to know everything about me.  He tilts his head and a messy curtain of blond hair falls forward, obscuring half his face.

While he studies me, I study him, trying to infer anything from his own lines – the sharp line of his nose, the angle of his jaw, the curve of his mouth.  These lines tell me nothing, other than that he’s pretty.  My gut twists in that foreboding way when I think of other boys the way I’m supposed to think of girls.

I can’t decipher anything below the delicate veneer. His face is a mask. His face gives nothing away. Even his eyes, silver-blue and lucent, tell me nothing.  He is a sphinx, and I want to solve his mystery.  I want to get inside that blond head of his and learn everything I can.

“Your life line is ridiculously long,” he remarks as his finger follows a crease along the middle of my palm. I feel like he’s slicing me open and I shiver almost imperceptibly.  But he notices.  “Hold still,” he reprimands. “You’ve had at least four past lives. Your last two lives ended in murder. You’ll be really famous in this life.” His eyes lift to meet mine and he flashes a wry grin.  “More famous than your father.”

I smile weakly.  “Yeah?  You can really see all that?

“Yeah,” he replies, with a confidence that’s deadly cool and I could devour everything he says.  “Even the muggles will know your name.”

“He’s full of shit, Potter,” snorts Duston, nudging the blond boy with the familiarity of an old friend. “Don’t believe anything Scorpius tells you.”

They laugh and Scorpius drops my hand. I feel like a fool, and I think that’s precisely Scorpius’ aim.  I’m blushing and angry, but I can’t let it show how much they affect me, even if it’s painted on my cheeks.  I cross my arms and glance away.  “I knew you couldn’t really read palms.”

“Divination is so gay,” Bryce scoffs haughtily.

Lloyd playfully punches Bryce in the arm. “Like you, pretty boy?”

“Sod off, Warrington,” says Bryce, retaliating with a punch of his own.  They tousle one another like they’ve been play-fighting since they were babies.

Garret adds his opinion as he munches on Bertie Bott’s. “I can’t believe they make us take lessons in Divination.  It’s such bollocks.”

Scorpius plucks a few beans from Garret’s bag and pops them in his mouth.  “I can’t believe they let you into Slytherin, Goyle.  Don’t they know your mum’s a troll?  No half-breeds allowed.”

I watch the scene erupt around me like I’m not in it, like I’m in the audience watching a theater production. These boys are going to be my roommates for the next _seven_ years – Tonight is the first night of what’s shaping up to be the worst seven years of my life. It is bad enough that the Sorting Hat had put me in Slytherin after I begged it to put me in Gryffindor. The hat had said I don’t belong in Gryffindor, that Slytherin is where I will find who I really am. But I’m inclined to believe that I was duped by the stupid hat just like Scorpius had fooled me into believing he could read my fortune upon my palm.  I don’t belong here.  Scorpius Malfoy, Duston Montague, Bryce Zabini, Lloyd Warrington, and Garret Goyle – they all seem like total arseholes, and all seem to know each other already. I’m the odd one out.

I want to curl up and die.

I pretend to be sleepy and retire to my bed as the other boys continue their sugar-fueled revelry, giggling and exchanging inside jokes.  I put my pillow over my head to try to drown out the maddening sound of them.  But I hear everything. Bryce and Garret make salacious remarks about Weasleys.  They _must_ know I’m still awake.  And they _have to_ know who my family is.

When they finally settle down and go to bed, I still can’t rest.  I lie awake and stare at the sliver of firelight peeking between the green curtains of my four-poster. Suddenly, the curtain parts and a shadow slides onto my bed, backlit by dim, golden light.

“Albus, you awake?” Scorpius whispers.

“Now, I am,” I whisper raggedly, as if I’d been asleep this whole time.

He’s sitting next to me and I can see what appears to be glowing, twinkling stars on his pyjamas.  “I wanted to tell you that it’s not bullshit.”

I rub my eyes superfluously.  “What are you on about?”

“My prediction,” he says, whispering like it’s a scandal.  “I can’t really read palms, but I’m pretty good at reading people and I have this feeling about you.”

I don’t show him how intrigued I am. I’m thankful for the darkness hiding the pink in my cheeks.  “Oh?” I say, trying to sound as bored as possible. 

“You’re not at all like what my father said you would be like,” he admits. 

I’m dying to know what Mr Malfoy, a man I’ve never met, had told his son about me.  But I won’t take the bait again.  “Is that so?” I say through a fake yawn.

“You’re going to be famous.  Hugely famous.  I just know it.  There’s something about you, Albus.”  

I can’t tell if he’s bullshitting me again or not. But he keeps calling me by my first name while the others had only called me _Potter._ It makes me want to trust him. 

I don’t realize that we’ve been sitting silently within the curtains of my bed for a pregnant moment until Scorpius clears his throat, perhaps nervously.  “Anyway, I just thought you should know.” 

“Erm… thank you?” I say with as much sarcasm as I can muster.

“Goodnight, Albus,” he whispers, and I can see his eyes twinkling like the stars on his pyjamas.  Before I can respond in kind, he slips back through the curtains, into the night.

Instead of crying my first miserable night at miserable Hogwarts in miserable Slytherin, I spend it dreaming of twinkling stars, silver-blue eyes, and fame.


	2. Tickles and Tarot Cards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It has not even been a full month into the school year when I receive my first detention at Hogwarts. Apparently, as a Potter, it’s practically my birthright. 
> 
> This is how it all goes down.

It has not even been a full month into the school year when I receive my first detention at Hogwarts.  Apparently, as a Potter, it’s practically my birthright.

This is how it all goes down.

 

Once I had realized that Slytherin’s motto isn’t Everyone vs The Other Potter Kid, I easily fell into place here. It only took me one day at school with all my cousins and my brother to understand that the dynamic between my roommates was the same as the dynamic amongst my family. The other first-year Slytherin boys all knew each other coming into Hogwarts and have a tight camaraderie. They’re sort of arseholes to each other, but lovingly so.  And the same exact thing can be said about my family, though we’re not _really_ arseholes.  Okay, so maybe Jamie is, but he’s an exception with an exceptional birth defect, having been born with an unusually large ego. 

Anyway, after I got over myself and realized that I’m not an outsider, I figured out where I fit amongst the Slytherins. Other than the occasional jokes about gay people and Weasleys, which usually don’t happen in the same breath, and are usually instigated by the same cheeky culprit ( _cough-Lloyd-cough_ ), their humor is not unlike mine. So we get along rather well. We’re nothing like what Jamie had said Slytherins were supposed to be – we’re not serious and brooding, nor are we all horrible bullies.  And we are, despite what Jamie would have you all believe, actually a pretty fun-loving lot.

 

Which brings us here, to Professor Patil’s classroom. Apparently, one _can_ have too much fun with Divination. I’m sorting through what seem like twenty thousand Tarot cards that had been shuffled together, trying to separate them into individual sets.  Scorpius, my accomplice, is polishing all the crystal balls the muggle way with a flannel and glass cleaner.

“Why do _you_ get to play with cards while I have to do actual work?” he says sulkily, “It’s your fault we’re here.”  I can’t quite tell if he is really sore or if he’s just taking the piss out of me. Because he had as much to do with the Tarot card incident in Divination class today as much as I did. It was my misfired spell that charmed the cards to go flying, but Scorpius was the one who suggested we try to make a house out of them. 

I snort and mutter, “Because you’re so much better at rubbing your balls.”

He scrunches up his nose and huffs, “You’re disgusting.” 

He _must_ know I’m just joking.  Doesn’t he? I stick my tongue out at him. He flashes me a wry grin and I know we’re cool.  “I don’t rub my balls,” he says haughtily, “and anyway, how would _you_ know?” 

“I don’t.  I was just being a jerk,” I mumble, hiding my embarrassment with an aloof shrug. 

“For the record, I scratch them,” he says, so seriously that it’s sort of funny.  Then he adds with a little smirk, “With _this_ hand.” He sticks a finger in my ear faster than I can thwart him, and I squeal when I realize it’s wet. I don’t know if it’s glass cleaner or spit, and I don’t want to find out. 

I retaliate by giving his ear the same treatment, or at least attempting to, but Scorpius grabs my wrist with one hand and tickles me with the other.  We somehow end up giggling and rolling on the patchwork of Persian rugs in a flurry of tickles and tarot cards.  And I don’t care if all my work is undone – I haven’t had a laugh like this in a long time, and haven’t been fairly matched in a tickle fight in even longer. I usually end up nearly pissing myself laughing at the hands of Jamie or Teddy.  But this time, I’ve got Scorpius pinned to the floor with the sheer power of my wiggling fingers upon his sides.  He’s laughing so hard that his silver blue eyes are gleaming with mirthful tears.  And there’s something about his laugh that has me wanting to pull more out of him, to hear it ringing like music in the empty classroom, to let it fill my head and fill my dreams for nights to come.

 

It is that moment that I know I will always want to make Scorpius laugh just for me.  And in the days to follow, I will be surprised to find how jealous I get when he laughs this way for other people – how it makes my chest hurt when he giggles at Alexa’s charming wit, or chuckles heartily at Duston’s wry humor. I don’t know why, but I want to be the one that makes him laugh more than the Montague twins or any other person for that matter.

 

“Seriously?” When Professor Patil comes back to the room to check on us, she finds the place much worse off than we’d left it after Divination.  We were so lost in laughter that we hadn’t even heard her come in.  I can tell she’s fresh out of fucks to give.  “I’m so done with you boys.  So done,” she says with a deep sigh.

We quickly stand up, both looking like a right mess, with our hair tousled and our robes all disheveled.  Scorpius puts on this expression that could liquefy hearts and says, “I’m sorry, Professor.  It’s my fault.  I promise I’ll clean up.”

It’s that exact expression that I will come to know very well as the one he uses on me to get precisely what he wants, and I will give it to him every time, not so much because of that slight pout or that fluttering fan of pale lashes, but because he’s Scorpius, and I’d do anything for him.

I don’t know why he’s taking all the blame. Sure, he technically started the tickle fight.  But it’s not like I didn’t perpetuate it.  “We’ll clean up,” I amend. 

“Oh you’ll do more than clean up your mess,” says Professor Patil with her hands on her hips.

And that’s when we earn the second detention of our young lives.  Though Professor Patil has quickly recognized, as will all of our professors, that Scorpius and I are at our worst when we’re together, and she makes us serve our detentions separately next time. 

 

As much as Scorpius and I are a terrible twosome, we’re also at our best when we’re together.  I’m quick to snatch him up as my partner whenever classwork requires that students pair up, and Scorpius never protests.  We work perfectly together when we’re not getting into trouble. We’ve earned our house more points than detentions so far.  However, it’s too early in the school year to be certain this trend will continue.

In the weeks that pass, we become thick as thieves. There simply isn’t anybody else I’d rather be with, and Scorpius seems more than happy to oblige my constant presence.  He’s the first face I see, beaming at me from between the curtains of my four-poster when he wakes me up, and the last one I see when I say goodnight to him – and if I’m being honest, I see his face well beyond that, in my recurrent dreams.  Scorpius isn’t like any other boy I’ve ever met, isn’t like any other friend I have, and he just makes me so damn happy.  My subconscious can’t be blamed for wanting to spend time with him, even when I’m not awake.

My close friendship with Scorpius is conspicuous enough for Alexa to comment on how inseparable he and I have grown. 

“What are you going to do when winter hols comes? Somebody is going to have to perform surgery to separate you two,” she says a few days shy of Christmas break. 

I hadn’t thought about it before. But now that I am thinking about being away from Hogwarts, away from Scorpius, I inwardly panic. We haven’t spent a single day apart since our first day of school, and the thought of being without him makes me feel like I’m about to lose an appendage.  This unexpected feeling frightens me, and I do what I do with all unwelcome emotions.  I bury it. 

Flippantly, I answer, “I lived twelve years without him. I can survive two weeks.”  As soon as the words come out of my mouth, I regret them, for Scorpius, who is usually unreadable, flashes a slightly wounded look. 

In the days that follow, Scorpius is quieter, less happy-go-lucky.  We’re still stuck together like glue, but I can tell there’s something eating away at him. On the last day of classes before winter hols, he takes my wrist as we walk the corridors together – it’s not unusual for us to be arm-in-arm, but there’s something strange and clingy about the way he holds me.

That night, the eve before we all head back home for the holidays, Scorpius and I say goodnight as we always do. But after all the lamps go dark, indicating that the last of the boys in our room has retired, the curtains of my four-poster part and I see the glowing stars of Scorpius’ pyjamas in the darkness.  He wordlessly pulls back my covers, slips into bed beside me, and curls himself around my back.

“Twelve years doesn’t mean shit,” Scorpius hisses quietly, “Two weeks is going to suck, and you know it, Albie.”

I heave a deep, long sigh and his arms feel tighter when my lungs expand, though I don’t protest.  I turn to face him, though I can barely make out his features in the darkness.  “I know. I’m going to miss you loads, Scor. I never said I wouldn’t.”

“Good.  You’d better.  Because I’m going to miss you loads too,” he says, and I feel my heart twist into knots. I like the fact that I’ll be missed, but I hate the fact that Scorpius will feel anything but happy because of me. 

“Hey, maybe you can visit.  Or maybe I can visit you,” I suggest.

“Not bloody likely,” he scoffs. “Dad’s not exactly thrilled that you’re my new best mate.”

Scorpius’ ability to make me feel both horrible and wonderful at the same time is becoming quite uncanny.

“You told your dad that I’m your best mate?” I ask, smiling stupidly and thankful it’s too dark for Scorpius to see my dumb face. I don’t know what thrills me more – the fact that Scorpius considers me his best mate or that he thinks I’m worth writing home about. 

“Well, yeah,” he replies like it’s obvious, “didn’t you tell yours?”

“Of course,” I lie.  I’d written my parents a few short letters, but I’m usually not very specific when I do.  I’d mentioned Scorpius’ name before and had never been met with any sort of disapproval in reply.

“Dad said you’re only going to hurt me and that I shouldn’t get too close,” he says.  And maybe I’m imagining it, but Scorpius seems to move closer.

His words are upsetting for more than the obvious reason of some bloke I’ve never met making irrational judgments about me – it makes me doubt the nature of Scorpius’ friendship with me. I wonder if he’s just being my best mate to piss off his father.

“That’s stupid.  He doesn’t even know me,” I mutter.

“He knows your dad,” he replies, as if it really means something.

I roll over and turn my back to him. “Well, I’m not my dad.”

Scorpius’ arms wrap around me again and I feel his chin digging into my shoulder.  “And I’m not mine.  He can go screw himself.”

Nothing else needs to be said. Somehow, we reassure each other’s doubts and fears with the simple act of falling asleep in the same bed, like brothers, like best friends, like there are no boundaries between us. It will be the first of many nights just like this.  And it doesn’t make separation any easier.  It only makes it harder.


	3. A Minivan and Drunk Mums

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I really don’t need to be in a confined space with Scorpius right now for any reason, and I feel more claustrophobic than I normally would be, which is not at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No drinking and driving in this chapter despite what the title might lead one to believe.

I hate the minivan.  It’s the worst mode of transportation ever invented. I mean, what arsehole muggle decided that a large family should be trapped in a metal box together for an extended period of time? 

The worst conversations always happen in the minivan, and it’s always much more horrible than if the same conversation happened at the dinner table.  At least you can escape from the dinner table.  I guess, technically, you could open the door of the van, provided that mum hasn’t engaged the safety locks, and jump out onto the shoulder of the road. 

I’ve thought about it; believe me, I have. I’ve stared out that window many times and wondered which would be harder to survive – a drop and roll onto the side of a country road, or a three-hour ride in the van with mum and dad grilling me while Jamie makes sure I’m flipped over every few minutes for maximum roasting.

Because mum has no patience for the way dad drives, she learned how to do it, and some clearly daft muggle authority actually gave her a license to operate a motor vehicle.  I’ve never been to the States, but Uncle George says that mum drives like a New York City taxicab driver, which is to say, slightly more insane than a Knight Bus driver.  Lily gets car sick very easily and mum doesn’t make it any easier for her – mum’s logic is that if she drives faster and more erratically, we’ll get to our destination sooner, which means Lily is on the verge of vomiting for a shorter time. Lovely woman, our mother. Somehow, she’s hyper-aware of everything that’s going on in the back and yells at us for things even before we’ve fully executed them.  And because dad has no need to pay attention to the road right now, and because he hates awkward silences, he insists on filling nearly all three hours between London and Godric’s Hollow with questions – he’s never satisfied with one-word answers.  Jamie loves the sound of his own voice and is always more than happy to answer with many words, especially when the questions are about me.

I seriously _hate_ this minivan right now. 

“So… Albie… Slytherin, huh?” says dad, sitting in the passenger seat, glancing over his shoulder.  He’s saying it like it’s just a casual thing. Like I hadn’t been freaking out about the prospect of being sorted into that house just a few months ago in that same car, on the same ride, but in the other direction. I know he’s not proud. I can tell he feels weird about it. Maybe he’s disappointed. Despite that bullshit he wrote to me my first week of Hogwarts, reminding me _again_ of the amazingly awesomely heroic bloke who came out of Slytherin who I’m somehow supposed to live up to being named after, I think dad is just a tinge sore I’m not a Gryffindor.  So I get defensive.

“Yeah, well, nothing you can do about it now. What’s done is done. I’m a Slytherin,” I shrug and add unapologetically, “Sorry.”

“Way to ruin a fifty-year legacy of Potter and Weasley Gryffindors, Al,” says Jamie as he claps me too hard on the back from the row of seats behind.

I turn and scowl at him murderously. 

He remarks at my expression, “Ooh, look at you. Got that Slytherin shit-taking face down like _what_.”

“James!  Language!” mum reprimands, swerving the van slightly as she hazards to pierce us with her signature glare in the rearview mirror.

James just smiles and mutters more quietly, “They ought to feed you snakey lot more fiber.  It’s obvious you Slytherins have loads of crap stuck up your arses.”

I reply with a vulgar two-fingered gesture.

Mum misses nothing. Ever.

“I said watch your fucking language, James Sirius, and I mean it!  Albus, that’s just as rude.”

Dad adds, clearly more for mum’s sake than for anybody else’s, “Dial it back a few, boys.”

Indignant, I argue, “But, dad, I didn’t say _anything_.”

“Mummy, I think I’m going to throw up,” groans Lily from her curled up position on the seat next to me.

“Throw up on Albie.  It’ll cover up the stench of snake,” says Jamie.

“Snakes don’t even smell like anything,” I argue, “Lions _stink_.” 

“Actually, I have it on good authority that snakes do smell,” says dad with a small shudder, then adds, a bit distantly, “Like death.”  He quickly snaps out of his reverie, “But lions also smell, on the account of their musk glands. However, any smelly zoo animal has nothing on you, boys.”

All humor is lost on us at this moment, not that dad is ever as funny as he thinks he is.

“Daddy, stop talking about stinky things. I’m going to throw up!” Lily insists.

Mum makes an exasperated sound that’s reminiscent of a growl and pulls the van over to the shoulder.  We’re barely out of London, and we’re already making our first stop.  It’s going to be a long ride home.  At least we won’t have to stop again for Jamie to use the loo – he’s having a piss with his back turned to the M5, which is quite busy with holiday commuters.

“James Sirius Potter, I did not raise you to behave like a bloody animal!” mum shouts as she rubs Lily’s back, who is doubled over and hurling tonight’s dinner into a snowy ditch.

“Hey, at least I got out of the car before I had a piss,” he replies.

I’m perfectly content to stay in the van and let the whole disgusting scene play out on its own, without my intervention. Dad apparently feels the same way. But dad, being dad, has to take this opportunity to have a deep one-on-one with me.

He’s unbuckled his seatbelt and is facing me, smiling. I’d been traveling on a train all day just to be separated from my best mate and I don’t really have anything to smile about.  “You know I’m proud of you, Albus,” dad says.

“What for?” I mumble.

“For being you.  For being… unique,” he says.  Oh, Merlin, here we go…  “You don’t need to apologize for being sorted into Slytherin.  Never apologize for being exactly who you are.  The sorting hat sees things in people that they don’t even know are there.  It sees the best in us, and puts us where we would thrive.  And I couldn’t be happier for you.”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t be happier if I were in Gryffindor?” I ask meekly.

“No, I wouldn’t.  I want you to be where you’ll be happiest – where you’ll be the best that you can be.  For the record, I have nothing against Slytherin house.”

I don’t know if I fully believe that last bit, but I’ll take the rest of it.  And I’m glad Jamie isn’t there to argue otherwise.  I smile slightly and reply, “I have nothing against Slytherin house either. I like where I am.”

“Good.  Don’t let your brother bother you too much.”

 

We’re back on the road.  Lily is asleep.  Jamie keeps tapping his foot on the back of my seat and I’m tired of telling him to stop.  Mum is tired of me asking her to tell Jamie to stop.  It’s been far too long since dad asked a question and I’m just bracing myself for the next. 

“Tell me about your new friends, Albie,” says dad, cheerily, “Who’s this partner-in-crime of yours?”

Jamie lets out a short, maniacal burst of laughter.   “Oh you’re gonna _love_ this one, dad.  Go on, Al.  Tell them who your new boyfriend is.”

My face goes bright pink all the way to the tips of my ears as I mutter, “I do _not_ have a boyfriend.”

“You know your mother and I will love you and accept you no matter what, even if you’re--”

“Merlin’s pants!” I interrupt and throw my hands up in exasperation.  “I don’t have a boyfriend!”

“Good,” says mum resolutely.  “Keep it that way.  No boyfriends until you’re at least sixteen.”

I can’t believe this conversation is happening, and in an old Honda Odyssey, of all places.  The shoulder of the M5 is looking really good right now.

“But, mum!” I respond, my voice cracking with horror, which dad somehow interprets as a protest.

“Your mother’s right.  Gay or straight, you’re far too young to be in a relationship,” says dad.

“Oh my GODS, would you all just stop for a second and listen to me?  Scorpius Malfoy is not my boyfriend.  We’re best mates. I don’t even fancy boys like that.”

That last bit is more a statement for myself than for them.  Maybe it’s a lie. But it’s a lie I need to tell myself. Because I absolutely do not want to be known as Harry Potter’s gay son, which is marginally worse than Harry Potter’s Slytherin son.  And even more than that, I don’t want to be gay and best mates with the prettiest, most amazing boy in the whole world – that just opens up all sorts of awkwardness I can’t deal with.

But despite my insistence, James is not convinced. “Sure, you don’t fancy boys” he says sarcastically, “And I’m not devastatingly brilliant,” he adds with a snort, “and the sky isn’t blue.”

“Malfoy?  Scorpius Malfoy, you said?” dad asks for clarification.

“Yeah.  Don’t you remember me mentioning him in my letters?”  I add with a small, petulant pout, “Or do you not really read them?”

“I just didn’t realize he was your best mate, is all,” says dad.

“And?” I glare at him challengingly.

“And nothing.  Good for you.  It’s nice you found a friend.”  I don’t even have to see dad’s face to know his words are forced.

“You do know his grandfather tried to kill me,” says mum.

“Did he?” I ask meekly, hardly able to argue with that.

“And his dad tried to kill the man for whom you’re named,” she adds.

“Really?”  I pretend that I’ve forgotten, but I’ve heard this all before – how the Malfoys were an evil lot who did some horrible things to my parents in the past.

“That’s all true, Gin, but we shouldn’t forget that both his father and his grandmother ultimately saved me,” dad points out.

“Erm, and we also shouldn’t forget… SCORPIUS DIDN’T TRY TO KILL ANYBODY.”  It’s sad that I have to state the obvious.

“Gran killed his great aunt, who killed the bloke I’m named after.  That’s not awkward or anything,” adds James, as if I hadn’t said anything.

I’m staring out the window at the dark countryside along the M5, wondering if Scorpius is having an equally horrid conversation with his parents about me.

 

Nobody brings up Scorpius again for a week, when an owl arrives at our house.  Dad intercepts the letter it’s carrying and hands it to me, unopened. “This just came for you,” he says, with a small smile. 

The fancy envelope is sealed with a wax emblem bearing an ornate ‘M’ and my pulse starts to race.  I rip it open and immediately recognize Scorpius’ handwriting on the parchment.

Before I can read it, dad tells me, “If he’s good to you, I can accept that he’s your friend.”

I look up at him with pleading eyes, hoping he’ll understand and make mum understand.  “He really is, dad.  Scor’s the best. Honest.”

He nods and pats me on the back, leaving me in peace, thank Merlin, to read the letter alone.

  

_Dear Albie,_

_I hope you’re having a lovely holiday.  From your letter, it sounds like your Christmas was brilliant._

_I spent a week at home with dad and it was miserable.  He wouldn’t even let me owl you.  So my Christmas sucked, to say the least.  I don’t even care that dad gave me a new broom.  It’s the Nimbus Mach-12 special edition with the silver racing stripes.  I’m not bragging or anything.  I haven’t even flown it. Uncle Theo gave me a stupid record player and some old records.  What the hell am I supposed to do with that?  Mum gave me money, as usual, as did all my grandparents.  Pretty boring.  What did you get for Christmas?_

_I’m at my mum’s house this week.  She lets me do whatever I want.  You could visit me here if you’d like.  I already asked her and she said it would be alright, as long as you behave yourself. Her words, not mine. You know I prefer when you don’t. Haha!_

_Miss you loads. Sorry I couldn’t reply to the letter you’d sent last week._

 

_\- Scor_

I don’t know why, but my heart is soaring. It’s not like Scorpius’ letter is a very happy one.  But it’s something. It’s the first letter he’s ever written to me, if one doesn’t count little notes scrawled on scraps of parchment and passed clandestinely in class.  I tuck it away safely in the top drawer of my bureau and send off a reply as soon as I can.

 

  

_Dear Scor,_

_I’m glad you got my first letter.  I was a little concerned when I didn’t hear back, but I figured your dad was being a jerk, so no worries._

_I didn’t get anything that special for Christmas.  I asked for an electric guitar, but I didn’t get one.  Mum and dad said I could bring my acoustic one with me when I go back to school, though._

_I can visit you on Wednesday, but mum insists on coming along.  I’ve no idea why.  Maybe to make sure I behave.  Sorry I’ll have to disappoint you. Ha ha ha!_

 

_Miss you lots,_

_Albie_

 

Wednesday finds my mother and I traveling to London through the floo to a very posh address in Kensington. She’s not impressed by Scorpius’ mum’s townhouse, but it can’t be denied that it’s grand. We step through a marble fireplace, into a fancy sitting room.  It’s so immaculately clean, unlike our house, that I can’t believe people actually live here. And for a few eerily quiet seconds, I think that we’ve come to the wrong place.

But then I hear a high-pitched voice calling from another room.  “Sweetie darling, I think your little friend has arrived!”

I hear the sound of footsteps clattering down a staircase at lightning speed.  Then Scorpius bounds into the room, shouting my name excitedly, and crashes into me with his arms out – it’s more of a collision than a hug, but I hardly care. I’m just so happy to see him, and we nearly crush each other in a bear hug.

Scorpius’ mother teeters in on very high heels, wearing a very loud pattern dress.  I don’t miss the subtle way mum raises her eyebrows, nor the way the other woman smirks. “Well, hello,” she says, approaching as quickly as her shoes can take her across the hardwood floor, which isn’t very fast. “Astoria Greengrass, Scorpius’ mother,” she introduces herself and gives mum a double air kiss, which mum doesn’t quite know what to do with.  “You’re Ginevra Potter, Albus’ mother,” she says before mum has a chance to introduce herself.  “Charmed. I love your hair.” The woman hasn’t even acknowledged me and she has already hooked my mother’s arm and whisked her off to the seating area.  “Can my elf get you a cocktail, Ginevra?  Tink makes a very good dry martini.”

“Oh, er, I suppose just a lemonade if you have any,” says mum.

“Nonsense,” Astoria says with a dismissive wave of her manicured hand, “It’s time for the mums to have a break while the boys play.” She sits my mother on a remarkably white leather sofa, and mum still looks a bit taken aback. “I’ll have Tink mix a margarita for you, darling.”  She regards us with what might be a stern glance, but her severely penciled-in eyebrows make it hard for me to read her expression.  “Scorpius, I expect you and your little friend to come down for tea in two hours. No going up on the roof, and no playing in mummy’s room.”

“Yes, mummy,” beams Scorpius like the perfect, dutiful son.  He puts his hand around mine and pulls me along, leaning over to whisper in my ear, “Let’s go to the roof. The view is brilliant.”

We run off giggling, up a spiral staircase, past slightly vulgar abstract paintings, to the top floor.  He takes me into a lofty attic space that serves as a storage room for what appears to be boxes of women’s shoes carefully labeled with color and style.  There’s also a paint-splattered easel that looks like it had seen a lot of use, but there are no art supplies to be found.

As Scorpius winds the squeaky crank on an old, small window, I ask him, “Who paints?”

“Mum used to,” he replies, grunting slightly as he muscles the window open, “Those awful wanna-be Picasso’s in the stairway are hers. I prefer drawing.”

“Used to?” I inquire, hoping that my question isn’t too forward, “Has she replaced painting with a shoe-buying hobby?”

Scorpius doesn’t laugh, but also doesn’t seem to be bothered.  Blithely, he answers, “Mum only paints when she’s happy.”

Before I can say anything, not that I even know what to say to that, Scorpius has the window open and is squeezing through it. I follow him through, onto a very narrow ledge fenced-in by wrought iron metalwork that proves more of a hazard with its rusty spikes than a deterrent from falling.  He turns to face the roof and braces himself with his hands on the slate tiles as he sidesteps along the ledge, completely fearless, and I follow suit, however warily.

“You’re crazy,” I say with a nervous giggle. I don’t want to say what I really feel, which is scared shitless.  I trust Scorpius.  I shouldn’t right now, but I do.

“Don’t look behind you and don’t look down,” he says.

Of course I disregard the warning and glance down, becoming terribly aware of how very high up we are.  My breath hitches as a black taxicab whizzes by loudly on the street below and I grip the slate for dear life.  I hadn’t realized I’d stopped moving until Scorpius urges me on. He’s navigated the turret of the attic onto the flat part of the roof nearby and is holding his hand out to me.

 “Come on, Albie, you can do it.  I won’t let you fall.”

And I believe him.  I’ve no reason not to.  I take his hand and use it for leverage to climb onto the roof while he pulls me up. When I get there, momentum has me nearly falling onto him and he giggles with his arms around me as I grab a hold of him. “I got you.  See?  You didn’t fall.” I’m inclined not to let go of him for a few seconds, but vertigo can’t be blamed.  “Come to the other side,” he says, pulling out of my arms and tugging me by the hand.

We cross the roof and I’m rewarded by a breathtaking view of London, from Kengsington Gardens just bellow, to Parliament and the London Eye to the far East of us, with the Thames snaking through the city. “Wow,” I breathe out, awestruck. “You’re so lucky you live here.”

“I only live here every other week,” he admits, “but sometimes less if mum is traveling.  Sometimes more if dad is traveling.  They do travel a lot.”  I don’t miss the hint of sadness in these statements and I wonder why Scorpius doesn’t travel with his parents, but that’s a question for another time.

“Well, it’s brilliant.  I wish I lived some place so cool.  Godric’s Hollow is boring as shit,” I say.

“I’d still visit you there if I were allowed,” says Scorpius.

“So you’re not?” I ask.

“To be honest, you’re not even supposed to be here,” he says, smirking slightly, as if defying his father pleases him more than my company.  “Dad made mum promise not to let me see you. But mum rarely does what dad asks. It works out in my favor sometimes.”

 

We spend the next two hours touring all the landmarks of London from the top of his mother’s house.  He tells me stories about the places he’s been to around the city and I gobble them up like candy, not just because I’m a country boy hungry for city life, but because I get to see a side of Scorpius that I don’t see at school.  And between the lines, I glean little details about his family life that I tuck away for later because I still want to know everything about this enigmatic, blond Sphinx, even more than I wanted to before we became best mates.

I discover that this happy boy with everything in the world hasn’t had the perfect life.  I learn that his parents divorced when he was very young. I infer that his mum likes her martinis a little too much.  I find out that Scorpius is a lot closer to his grandmother and his Uncle Theo than he is to his mum and dad, by no fault of his own.  I can’t be quite sure, and I’ll probably ask about it when I get the nerve, but I think his Uncle Theo is a lot more to his father than a close friend. But I don’t know how to ask Scorpius if his dad is gay without sounding like an arsehole, so I’ll leave it for another day.

For now, I’m content to let Scorpius regale me with tales of his childhood, growing up between Wiltshire and London. And I wonder if Duston and Alexa even know these stories, or if I’m the only one he’s shared them with.

It starts to snow, but we don’t let it chase us inside. Not just yet.  The flakes are large and icy, and collect on Scorpius’ hair and eyelashes.  And I muse to myself that Scorpius is a snowflake – of perfect design, of pure white pallor, and easily melted with the slightest touch of warmth.  

I stare at him, entranced, as he talks animatedly with his hands about the time he went to the Museum of Natural History and his dad had to be peeled off his Uncle Theo when the life size Tyrannosaurus Rex unexpectedly started to lunge at them – Mr. Malfoy apparently had no experience with animatronics.  Scorpius laughs and the brightness of his smile could melt all of the snow powdering the rooftop. And I find myself admiring Scorpius in a manner that goes beyond how one admires a friend or a work of art. 

He is beautiful.  So beautiful that it makes my heart ache in ways that frighten me. When he giggles and shakes the snow from his hair, I know I’m in trouble – that ache in my heart drops to my stomach and twists my insides with lingering, dull discomfort. My cheeks flush with warmth despite the weather and my pulse races inexplicably.

“Shouldn’t we be going in for tea?” I ask, grasping at any excuse to get down from the roof to put some distance between Scorpius and I.

“Probably,” he shrugs with a little sigh.

On the way down from the attic, Scorpius suddenly pulls me down a corridor and into a washroom.  “Come here,” he whispers.

I panic as the heat from my cheeks travels up to my ears.  I really don’t need to be in a confined space with Scorpius right now for any reason, and I feel more claustrophobic than I normally would be, which is not at all.  “What are you doing?” I ask nervously.

“We’re all wet.  Mum will notice and she’ll know we’ve been on the roof,” he says, yanking a fancy-looking embroidered hand towel off the rack. He ruffles my hair with it and I can’t help but laugh.

He dries his own hair, and when we’re properly dry, we glance at our reflections in the mirror.  “It doesn’t look like we’ve been on the roof, but it also doesn’t look like we’ve been staying out of trouble,” I remark upon our disheveled appearance.

Scorpius giggles.  “Well, that’s a given.”  He reaches for my hair and I flinch reflexively when he touches me. “Calm down, Albie, I’m just fixing your hair,” he reprimands lightheartedly.

I hold my breath, as if breathing would somehow reveal the war of emotions going on inside me.  When he finishes, he grins at his work.

“There.  Gorgeous as ever,” he says with a nod.  I know he’s just joking, but my heart still wants to do flips inside my chest.

When I look in the mirror and I see that he’s given me a sort of a faux-hawk, I crack up laughing.  “You little shit.  Come here.”

When I’m done with him, Scorpius’ long fringe is braided into the closest thing to a devil’s lock that I can get without hair product.  We laugh like it’s the funniest thing ever and it untwists all the knots in my stomach and eases the tightness around my heart.  We head down for tea, our hair looking positively ridiculous, but plaster on completely straight faces, ever the perfect actors.

“Scorpius, darling!” Scorpius’ mother gasps in horror, “What in Merlin’s name have you done to your beautiful hair?”

“What?  Don’t you like it, mother?” Scorpius asks, completely unfazed. “It’s the latest style. All the boys are wearing their hair like this now.”

I’m the first one to crack, biting my bottom lip to stifle a snort.

“Just be thankful he didn’t take a scissor to his hair, Astoria,” says mum.  She looks much more comfortable than when I’d left her, with an arm draped along the sofa and a cocktail in her hand.  “You wouldn’t believe the mess my son Jamie made of Albie’s hair when he was four. He looked like a sick porcupine.”

“Mum!” I glare at her, thoroughly humiliated, as I rake my fingers through my hair to set it back into place before she can say anything about it.

Scorpius’ mother giggles behind her martini glass. “Boys.  Such horrid little creatures.  Still, we can’t help but love them.”

“I’ll drink to that,” mum agrees. They clink glasses and I wonder exactly how many drinks Scorpius’ mum had to give my mother to get her to be so chummy, not that mum isn’t a stranger to a well-earned glass of wine at the end of the day, nor is she unfriendly.

I suppose any beef mum has is with the Malfoys and not with Astoria.  So I should be relieved that they’re somehow _besties_ now, not horrified that mum has a buzz going on and is revealing the most embarrassing moments of my childhood as we take our tea.

Tea is a rather interesting affair, given the slightly altered state both of our mothers are in.  Even without the lubrication of alcohol, my mum isn’t one to hold back her thoughts.  And I can tell that Scorpius’ mother also speaks without a filter.  Tea does little to sober them, and the generous amounts of sugary cakes Scorpius and I gobble up do little to calm our giggles.

He and I sit beside one another drinking tea from fancy china.  It’s evident that Scorpius’ graceful ways had been ingrained from an early age, for he’s well mannered even in the way he drinks his tea, sipping soundlessly and with his back regally straight, exactly the way his mother does.  I can’t help but admire how refined he is at twelve years old and feel a little bit embarrassed about how very _un_ refined my mother and I are.

Then I remember what dad told me. _Never apologize for being exactly who you are_.

And when Scorpius tilts his head and leans it on my shoulder, I know he accepts me just the way I am – slurping my tea and slouchy.  That’s all that matters. That’s all that will ever matter.

 

 

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Coevolution: Snogging and Jelly Slugs](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3318614) by [unkissed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unkissed/pseuds/unkissed)




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